Personal Narrative

Personal Narrative Writing

Think about what this song and video are

saying.

So what did you learn from this video? What stood out

to you?

Let’s look at a couple of other examples of personal

narratives.

I stared in horror at the birthday present in front of me, while the thought, “Why, why me,” continued to run through my head. My eyes scanned the shiny pink Barbie bike with the cute little streamers emerging from the white handlebars. The spokes alone looked as if they were going to eat me. I turned to face my dad, my hands now shaking and was quickly disgusted with the joy in his face. “Daddy, no, please! Don’t make me, oh please!” “Oh, you can do it, just remember to…..” I blocked out all sound including my fathers ongoing instructions as my six year old body tried frantically to find a way out of the current predicament. My eye lids started to well up with tears and I got down on my knees and desperately pleaded. I explained to my father what a miserable state his conscience would be in if I were to break all my bones on this monster, but it was to no avail for he just simply could not understand that the two wheeled contraption was going to inflict serious wounds upon his child.

To my alarm he was already hoisting me on top of the bike, and at this point I knew my fate was sealed. My father began to push the bike and right before he released the handle bars my eyes locked on his grinning face. I now looked frantically down at the concrete driveway. My muscles tensed and my whole body was frozen in place. Just then the thing I feared most occurred. The bike began to tilt and I fell hands and knees first onto the hard and unforgiving driveway. My baby soft skin was scraped aside and a wave of pain left me in the middle of the street, to cry.

Now, you assume a loving father would rush to my side and beg for forgiveness, but no my father would have to be different. My dad came to my side and peeled my limp body from the driveway. “Are you alright sweetie?” my father asked. “Well, I guess,” I said. “Good girl, that’s the attitude I like to see. Now let’s get you back on that bike.” My eyes stopped scanning my skinned palms and looked up for the first time. Surely I hadn’t heard right.

Still, to my amazement I was once again lifted onto the bike, and once again my dad was releasing the handle bars. The ceaseless pain in my legs reminded me to pedal this time, and my skinned palms gripped the bars to maintain my balance. Although, I was in pain, I allowed a smile to flicker across my face for just a second, revealing the pride I felt in my achievement.

This was the day I learned to ride a bike and this memory will always nest in my heart for it was a great achievement, and also one that I have continued to build on. I can only hope I will continue to learn more skills that will benefit me for the rest of my life.

My Marvelous Masterpiece

As Mrs. Jones droned on and on, my mind gradually slips from focus, and I go back to my little movie theater in the back of my head, which is always playing my most cherished memories, with or without an audience. Today it was playing “The First Time: Cooking”.

Perched on the brand new black granite and mirror countertop like a baby about to take wing, I was leaning over the giant cauldron-like pot, watching the water, waiting for it to come to a rolling bubble. Once it had become frothy, I poured in the pasta and the cheese, and immediately it turned a sickly yellow and started seething and bubbling with the now slightly discolored pasta churning in its troubled waters. Then I added the other cheeses, graceful Gouda, fretful feta, mushed mozzarella, soaked Swiss, and cherubic cheddar. You couldn’t see the macaroni anymore because of all the cheese melted over it.

Stirring this masterpiece with my oar-spoon, I couldn’t help thinking that I had forgotten something. “Let’s backtrack and see what we have forgotten,” said my subconscious. I had poured the water, gotten all of the ingredients, mixed them together…But wait! I had forgotten an ingredient! Everything was only a manically mediocre mix compared to this one ingredient! My entire cooking career led up to this insane ingredient being added just enough. This ingredient was called the Mondo Spicy Kicker, but my grandfather just calls it a kick in the pants. This devilish derivative of danger is made out of jalapeño peppers, red hot Chile peppers, habaneros, extra spicy barbeque sauce, and Tabasco. It has been in the family for years, and we have added it to almost everything. The bottle that it was in was as big as my head, and just as heavy if not heavier. Donning my “this-is-in-no-way-shape-or-form-a-joke” face, I gripped the bottle firmly in my four-year-old hands, preceded with caution to my stepladder that I was currently using to bring myself up the same elevation as the pot.

A drop of the almost acrid aromatic liquid gathered at the lip of the bottle and dropped into the cheesy mac. I thought that that wasn’t near enough, so I tried to pour another drop, but my hands were sweaty, and my hands let the bottle slip right into the cheesy mac.

Quickly, I took out the strainer and fished around for it. Luckily, I found it soon and not too much had drained out.

At that time Mrs. Jones started yelling and threatening me with a detention and a write-up, so I couldn’t continue with my reverie, but I remembered that my family loved that cheesy mac, and my heart glowed.